BRRAPPP!

There's an old joke that goes: 
     An elderly man says to his doctor, "Doc, I have this problem.  I keep throwing these silent farts all day long.  (See?  There goes one now).  I can't help it, doc.  I keep farting and farting, but they make no noise.  (Oops!  There goes another one.)  I don't know what's wrong with me.  I can throw the most massive farts, and they'll make no sound.  (Ahhh, that's three in a row.)  What do you think?"
     "Well," the doctor says.  "I think you need to have your hearing checked."
 
     Now, I told you that story to tell you this story:
 
     My Dad has his own room.  His room, actually, is in a guest house in the front of our main house.  If it's not called the Father-In-Law House, then it should be.  His room has its own satellite TV, radio/CD player, telephone, and refrigerated air.  The problem is that he likes to watch TV in the greatroom of the main house, which forces everybody--mainly me--to watch TV somewhere else.
     And that's where my Dad is right now.  He's watching baseball.  In fact, he's been watching baseball all day long.
     "Who's playing, Dad?" I'll ask him.
     "I don't know," he'll answer, and keep watching. 
     If it's not the Yankees, he really doesn't care who's playing.  Now, I like baseball as much as the next guy, as long as the next guy is someone who doesn't like baseball, and I have fond memories of watching baseball on TV as a toddler, when the only other options were The Edge of Night and Sing Along With Mitch.  When and where I lost my interest in baseball, who knows?  But it's gone.  No use crying over spilled milk.
     Speaking of milk, I'm kind of hungry, so I pour myself a glass of 2% and start to fix myself something to eat.
     "Do you want something, Dad?" I ask.
     "What?"
     "Would you like something to eat?"
     "Would I like something to eat?"
     "I'm fixing myself something, and would like to know if you would like me to fix you something."
     "You're making it?"
     "I'm the only one here, Dad."
     "Would I like something to eat."
     "Yes."
     "And you're making it."
     "Yes."
     "No, thanks."  My Dad is the only one who can make a polite statement sound insulting.
     Well, more for me.
     I'm not too picky about what I eat, and that's probably why Dad turned me down.  I tend to keep things simple.  It's not that I don't appreciate good food, I do.  And it's not that my wife isn't a good cook, she is.  It's just that in my bachelor years I got used to eating pretty much anything that was available.  Fast food.  Leftovers.  Meals by girlfriends trying to prove they can cook.  I kid my wife that I married her for only two reasons:  She could cook in the kitchen, and she could cook in the bedroom.*
     Meanwhile, my Dad gets up from his chair and goes to his little house with all the deluxe accommodations.  I grab some potato bread, Miracle Whip, various lunch meats, and lettuce, tomato, and such.  I decide to live large, so I even grab an avocado.
     Ten minutes have passed, and no Dad.
     I tear off a couple of lettuce leaves.  Rinse them, put them on the side to dry.  Slice the tomato.  Do the same with the avocado.  I look toward where my Dad had been sitting.  Still no Dad.
     So I grab four slices of potato bread, and slather them with Miracle Whip.  Heck, I decide to live life on the edge, so I grab mustard from the refrigerator, and slather on a little bit of that, too.  It should give my sandwich an interesting combination of sweetness and tart.
     My Dad's still gone.  The fact that he's left on the TV annoys me, and he does that constantly.  He'll sit, turn on the TV, get up, and leave.  I think I've given him enough time, so I walk over, grab the remote, and turn it off.  If he's not back by now, he's not coming back, I reason.
     I guess I shouldn't let it annoy me so much.  I'm sure I did the same thing when I was a kid.  I probably used to get up and and leave Mitch Miller warbling along with the bouncing ball, so I should cut my Dad some slack.  But I'm sure, even as a toddler, I would turn off the TV the majority of the time.  Do you know why I know this? 
     Because my Dad wouldn't have tolerated anything less.
     Settle down, settle down, I tell myself.  If I let myself get too irked about Dad not turning off the TV, I'll ruin my appetite.**
     So I get back to my two sandwiches.  Lettuce leaves torn and rinsed--check!  Tomato and avocado sliced--check!  Potato breads properly slathered--check!  I open the package of turkey slices and put a healthy amount on two separate slices of bread.  Heck, it's turkey...  I pile it on a little higher.  Top it off with the lettuce, tomato, and avocado.  Perfect.
     Just then, my Dad comes back.  He walks back to the TV.  Sees it's off.  I don't know if this confuses him, or if he's upset because I had the nerve to turn it off.  He stands in front of the black screen.  He stands there for a few minutes, trying to decide what to do, I guess.  Meanwhile, I serve myself a little more milk, and top off the sandwich with the remaining two slices of bread.
     I keep my head down, ignoring my Dad, and try to enjoy my meal.  I take the first bite of my sandwich.  Mmm, that's good, but you know what it needs?  Some chips.  So I walk over to the pantry, and grab myself a bag of Vinegar & Salt chips.  I can hear him mumbling something.  He mumbles to himself for a few minutes, before he starts walking back to his room.
     "What's that, Dad?"  I ask.
     "Nothing," he mumbles some more.
     To get to his guest house he has to walk right past me, through the kitchen, exit the french doors that lead to the patio, follow a little pathway, and--bam!--he's home.  The part of that sentence that's important is the part where I say he has to walk right past me, because...
     I lift my sandwich to take another bite, when--BRRAPPP!--he cuts loose with a huge fart just as he's passing me.
     He mumbles something again, and walks out of the kitchen. 
     I put my sandwich down, and walk away.  My appetite gone.  I don't know if it was intentional, accidental, or revenge for my having turned off a baseball game he really wasn't interested in.  All I know is...
     ...he ruined my meal.
 
 

  American Chimpanzee
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*But let's keep that between you and me.

**Did I mention that he does it ALL the time?  For some reason, instead of turning off the TV, he'll just get up, walk away, and leave it for us to worry about.